SIX SMITH INVESTIGATIONS INC
Top Floor, Peck House, Robespierre Place
(Tel: 28296371)
Couldn't do any harm, thought Joe. Also, he was touched to see Merv so enthusiastic, motivated by nothing more than friendship. So he'd agreed.
Why was he suddenly wishing he hadn't?
'What's wrong, Merv?' he asked.
'Nothing. Well, not much. In fact you'd hardly notice it.'
He dug in his pocket and produced a pale-pink hand-out. He'd been lying. Joe noticed it at once. In fact, it leapt from the page and hit you in the eye.
Every time the name SIX SMITH occurred it was spelled SEX WITH
'It was Dome's fault, that's Molly's daughter,' said Merv defensively. 'She must have misread it from my script and it seems she's a bit dyspeptic
'You gave her the thing handwritten?' said Joe incredulously. 'Shoot, Merv, you know your scrawl makes prescriptions look like road signs. And don't you mean dyslexic?'
'That too. And she should've checked,' protested Merv.
'Yeah, yeah, I bet you made sure she got your name right,' said Joe, turning the sheet over to look at the advert for Merv's FAB CAB with his home and mobile numbers. 'So tell me the bad news. How many copies of this foul-up did you distribute?'
'Hardly any. And soon as I spotted it I started collecting them back in. Honestly, Joe, if half a dozen people saw it, that's the limit.'
'Hey, Merv, watch him or he'll be giving you that special touch,' said Dick Hull, the Glit's owner, as he arrived behind the bar.
'Yeah, half a dozen, and they all just happen to be in here,' said Joe.
'Pay them no heed. Joe, I really have been pulling these things back in and sticking them on the fire. Won't be any left very soon, I promise you.'
He sounded so genuinely contrite, Joe found his anger ebbing. Confession's all right for Catholics, said Aunt Mira-belle. It's putting things right that saves your soul.
His mollification was completed when Merv offered to refund him the fifteen quid he'd contributed to expenses.
That's OK, it was a good idea,' he said. 'But in future I'll stick to word of mouth. And let's not leave any of these things lying around,
OK?'
He picked up the hand-out lying on the bar, thrust it into his pocket, finished his drink and left the bar. This had not turned out to be one of his better days. Best thing to do was pick up Whitey from Mirabelle's then head for home and see if he could find an old feel-good movie on the box to restore his faith in a benevolent deity. Failing that, he could carry on improving himself professionally by reading Beryl Boddington's Christmas present. Not So Private Eye, the life story of Endo Venera, the famous Mafia soldier turned gumshoe, as told to some Pulitzer- winning journalist. Beryl's purpose had, he guessed, been satirical, but Joe was finding the book fascinating and full of pointers.
He took a deep breath of the cold night air. Promised to be a hard frost. Which reminded him he hadn't closed his office window when he rushed out in his foolish eagerness to get legal advice. Like a man with piles sitting on a red-hot stove for relief. Best head back there to shut it. Way things were working out today, someone would be up the drainpipe and in through the window to help himself to the electric kettle and the answer machine. Probably had been already.
But no, they were both still there, with the machine registering that one call ... Four Golden Rings ... fat chance!
It was a woman's voice. Young, nicely spoken, probably black, but with so much cross-dressing these days, it was hard to say. Kids picked their accents like they picked their clothes, to fit the fashion.
She said, 'Hi, Mr. Sixsmith. Like to see you sometime, have to talk about a problem I got. Look, I'll pass this way early tomorrow, look in just on the off chance. But before nine. If not, I'll ring again. OK? By the way, the name's Jones. Miss Jones. OK?'
Way she said Jones had a bit of a giggle in it. Could this be a wind-up by one of the Glit jokers? He played it again, listened carefully. No, definitely Sixsmith not Sexwith. So where was the joke? Get him into the office before nine? Ha ha, really funny.
The phone rang. He grabbed it but didn't say anything. If this was some joker, let them make the first move.
'Sixsmith, is that you?'
The voice was female but this time he recognized it.
'Butcher, is that you?' he echoed.
She wasn't in the mood for joking. Her voice was urgent.
'Listen, you went to see Peter Potter, did you?'
That's right,' he said, his sense of grievance welling up. 'And he's a lot further gone than you imagine.'
'What do you mean?'
